A New Life
by CrossingTheSky
Summary: For a moment, he could see the pain, suffering, and humiliation in the haunted emerald depths, and Alfred knew he had to have him. USUK.  Slave england is sold to businessman Alfred.
1. Sold

So, this is my first USxUK story. I'm not quite sure what time period it's set in... probably sometime in the 17-1800's. It's an AU, because obviously there weren't too many British slaves wandering around the US back then. Please let me know if you find any glaring plot holes or grammatical errors. That would be embarrassing :P

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Alfred sat rigid and unmoving in the hard wooden seat that marked the end of the first row in the theatre. He gazed unblinkingly at the dirty wooden floorboards between his feet, refusing to look at the tall, foreboding stage that covered a large portion of the room. Around him, excited bidders gossiped about the latest imports. It made him sick. Next to him, Tony gave a loud yawn, shuffling his feet impatiently.

"Don't be so gloomy. These auctions are all the rage amongst the social elite –which, deny it as much as you want, you are a member of- and it's only fitting that you attend at least one in our lifetime."

Alfred grunted, unconvinced. "Let's just get this over with."

Tony persisted, pouting like a kicked puppy at his friend's words. "It'll be fun, Al! These aren't like normal auctions, you'll see. The bidding gets pretty intense. Even if you don't feel like buying something-" Alfred shuddered, his stomach curling in disgust at the thought of people attending these auctions for fun, "-You still get quite a show. But I don't think that's going to happen today. They just got a new shipment in with items from all over the world, so you'll probably end up bidding. Everyone does." He continued to ramble on as Alfred focused once more on the floor, pointedly ignoring him.

Alfred was 17 when the United States began importing slaves. The trade had started in Africa, but quickly spread to other parts of the world, reaching as far as Europe and Asia in a year. Even Canadians were not spared, as the more ruthless traders would often pillage the eastern shores of Newfoundland, taking all that they could. At first, the slave trade was frowned upon, but the trade quickly grew to be a major part of the American economy and soon any reservations about the treatment of slaves had vanished. 'It didn't help that the majority of slave owners had never set foot outside the United States,' Alfred thought bitterly. His brother Matthew lived in Canada, and often wrote to the wealthy American about how the traders were growing bolder, taking children as young as eight without remorse. The Canadian had been devastated when slave traders had raided his own village two years previously, claiming eight small children and killing four more. Matthew was 21 now; a year younger than his American brother, and still couldn't understand why they had done it. Alfred didn't know either. All he knew was that slavery was commonplace amongst the American social elite. And after nearly half a year of excuses, he had finally agreed to attend an auction, determined not to bid.

A loud, booming voice emitting from center stage interrupted the one-way discussion. Alfred flicked his eyes in the general direction of the announcer, taking in the odd appearance of the man striding across the stage. His long blonde hair fluttered about his neck and shoulders as he approached the auction block.

The man was dressed in a deep burgundy suit, which clashed horribly with his piercing blue eyes. Flinging his arms out extravagantly, he addressed the excited bidders. "Welcome esteemed gentlemen, to our auction. I assure you, the merchandise you will find here is of the topmost quality, imported from a variety of far off lands, chosen specially to suit your needs. Of course, respectable gentlemen like yourselves would expect nothing less I'm sure, so I'll just go over the standard procedure, and we'll let the auction commence!"

Alfred rolled his eyes at the strange man's theatrics. How he could be so enthusiastic about his job was a mystery.

The announcer continued, voice growing in volume as he neared the end of his speech. "Remember, raise your card and call out a price if you wish to bid. If not, kindly remain seated. The lucky winners will be able to pick up their new possessions after the show, behind the stage. Now, without farther ado, let the auction commence!"

The audience erupted into applause and the man strode off the stage, blowing kisses and waving maniacally only to return a moment later, a long thick rope in hand. "And now," he paused for dramatic effect, "Our newest shipment!" He pulled on the rope, grinning cruelly as a line of about 20 slaves stumbled onto the stage.

Alfred couldn't help but gape in shock. The slaves ranged from as young as twelve to as old as 30. They had no clothes, as to be expected at this type of event, and were joined together by a thick rope strung through the silver rings on their collars. Alfred found himself wishing for the hundredth time that day that he had stayed home. He could see welts and bruises on many of the slaves, presumably from their rough treatment on the journey over seas. The majority of the slaves were male, but he could make out three females in the line, looking just as anxious and worried as their male counterparts.

The auctioneer strode down the line, continuing with his sales pitch as though nothing was out of the ordinary. "As you can see, the variety we have here is astounding. Some of these fine specimens have yet to be broken in, having only received the basic training. Others have been schooled for months, and have attained the skills necessary to please even the most outrageous of masters. Take a good look gentlemen, these beautiful tools wish nothing more than to service you to the best of their abilities. The bidding and assessment will commence in a few minutes."

Alfred took another look at the line of captives, wishing he could run up to the stage and free them all. His visions of glory were shattered moments later, as the auctioneer pulled out a shortened bullwhip, cracking it menacingly at the slaves. Alfred was close enough to see their cowed faces, the dead emptiness that rang in every set of eyes as the crack of the whip sounded again.

Tony whispered in his ear, as if reading his thoughts. "Don't worry Alfred. He never hurts them, not badly at least. It's just a bit of discipline to get them ready for the auction. I've been to dozens of these auctions and I've never seen more than a few slaves beaten."

Alfred looked at his friend, shocked. "That's a bullwhip Tony! How can you say that?"

"It's not like they're not used to it. Besides, the whip is usually only used on the bad ones. If they don't step out of line, they'll be fine." As he spoke, another crack sounded form the stage, followed by a small whimper.

Alfred quickly faced the stage again, ignoring his friend in favour of watching the small confrontation that was taking place. The auctioneer had apparently hit one of the women, thus provoking a small blonde chained next to her. Alfred watched entranced as the youth screamed at the auctioneer, his emerald eyes blazing as he tried to stand in front of the angry man's helpless victim. The auctioneer flicked the whip across the boy's chest, smirking at the thin line of red that appeared on the otherwise pale skin. The blonde remained silent, glaring daggers at his tormentor even as the whip descended again on his unprotected flesh, carving through the skin and muscle easily. He was hit again and again, the auctioneer cackling at the applause that filled the building at the sight of blood. Alfred couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene, not even when another man came from behind the stage and pressed a thin silver needle to the blonde's neck, effectively stopping any and all protests. The emerald-eyed youth stumbled and fell, his eyes fluttering shut. He hung, suspended by his collar for a few moments before the slaves on either side of him managed to hoist him up by his arms. The auctioneer cackled again, kicking his unconscious victim before bending forward in an elegant bow and striding offstage. The slaves were pulled after him, and the wealthy elite were left alone to speculate on what they had seen.

Alfred still couldn't tear his eyes away from what he had witnessed. The pain in the emerald-eyed mans eyes haunted his mind. The boy had looked to be roughly the same age as him, perhaps slightly younger, and he had been whipped, chained, and treated like livestock. It made him sick, but he couldn't leave now. He had worked hard to become one of Boston's top businessmen, and he couldn't bear the thought of backing out, of exposing weakness in front of the spectators that filled the crowded room. Some of his greatest rivals were participating in this auction, and he would never be able to restore his reputation if he left. It was not right for a man of his class to leave, simply because of the mistreatment of a few slaves. Even though he really wanted to. He stared at the floor until the booming voice of the auctioneer rang out across the stage, announcing the start of the individual bidding.

After a few more minutes of barely contained excitement –or in Alfred's case, dread-, the ever-enthusiastic auctioneer bounded back onstage, excitedly approaching the podium. "And now," he announced, "Our first item!" A timid Asian man was pushed onto the stage. "Standing at 5'5, lot #1 is most recognized for his skill in the kitchen. He can make a variety of delicacies to suit your refined tastes, but is also useful for a variety of household tasks. He is very obedient and has completed his basic training. He is gently used, but don't let that stop you…" The auctioneer continued to describe the man onstage, circling him like a predatory beast on the hunt and pointing out specific attributes that would sound appealing to potential buyers. Finally, the bidding started. Alfred pretended to look uninterested, refusing to look anywhere near the stage as he was sold as the men (and few women) around him leapt out of their seats to bid. They were like animals, he thought disgustedly, fighting over these people as though they were nothing more than slabs of meat.

The rest of the auction continued in this manor, with the slaves being brought onto the stage, inspected, and sold. Finally, the auctioneer announced the last lot. The young man from earlier was pushed onto the stage, his knees buckling beneath him as he crashed to the ground. Alfred looked up at the noise, startled at the sight of the rebellious slave from earlier. His hands were cuffed in front of him in iron manacles, which were connected to a large wooden plank. Two stagehands dragged him upright, attaching opposite ends of the wooden bar to two thick chains that hung from the ceiling. Alfred noticed that the man was only semi-conscious, his hazy green eyes occasionally blinking open to stare uncomprehendingly at the audience. The two stagehands then stood to the side, giving the audience a perfect view of the defeated man that hung between them. His head fell forward as the board was hoisted farther into the air, dragging him upwards until his feet could only brush uselessly against the wooden floor. The long, red marks from earlier were still plainly visible on his chest.

The auctioneer strode forward, cupping his captive's chin in his hands as he began his sales pitch. "This specimen was captured off the coast of England, which explains his barbaric nature," he paused as the audience laughed and jeered, "And is significantly lesser than the previous lots that we displayed. However, everything must be sold, so we will start the bidding at $10,000, which as many of you will note, is a significant price reduction." The audience gasped as the Briton lifted his head at this and spat in the auctioneer's face. He grinned weakly at the audience, his eyes travelling around the room before resting on Alfred. Alfred jumped back, startled, but held his gaze, the emerald eyes commanding his attention. He couldn't look away. The emerald-eyed man suddenly jerked back, the crack of a slap to the face echoing through the room. The auctioneer calmly wiped the spit off his face, slapping his captive again before turning to face the audience. "He has no redeeming qualities, and would be best put to work in the fields. As you can see, he is untamable. He failed his basic training, which should come as no surprise, and should not be treated as anything other than the lowest form of vermin. If you have some unspent anger or frustration, this is the slave for you. Let the bidding commence." Alfred was giving the auctioneer his full attention now, his gaze never once wavering from the evil man on the stage. He sought out the piercing emerald eyes once more, but they were directed at the ground. Alfred suddenly noticed the man was shaking, thin tracks of tears running along his cheeks.

A large man at the back of the room stood, and announced in a booming voice, "$10,000". Alfred turned to stare at the bidder, recognizing the fearsome man instantly. Ivan Braginski, known abuser of slaves and Alfred's biggest competitor. The American's insides twisted at the thought of the green-eyed blonde chained to Ivan's bed. He was may not have attended an auction before, but he knew the purpose of the training the slaves underwent. They were trained to be sex slaves, doomed forever to entertain their masters with their bodies, silent and complacent for fear of a beating. Of course, many people purchased the slaves for domestic work, which is why the auctioneer tried to emphasize as many traits as possible, but the overwhelming majority were used for sexual gratification before being thrown aside. Alfred took another look at the green-eyed man, steeling his resolve. "$12,000".

Ivan glanced in his direction, surprised at the bid. "$15,000"

"$20,000"

"$25,000"

Alfred looked to the stage again, wondering what exactly possessed him to get into a bidding war with Ivan. The slave had lifted his head again, his eyes meeting Alfred's once more. Alfred stared steadily back, gazing into the emerald depths. For a moment, he could see the pain, suffering, and humiliation in the haunted green pools, before the man's gaze turned decidedly neutral. And in that moment, Alfred knew he had to have him. "Do we have $30,000?"

Alfred turned back to the auctioneer, taking a breath before speaking. "$50,000."

The audience gasped at the sudden jump in price. Out of the corner of his eye, the American watched Ivan sit down, angrily clenching his hands even as he smiled disarmingly. "He's all yours, comrade."

The auctioneer called out to the audience in a half-hearted attempt to resume the bidding, but it was clear to everyone that Alfred had won. Finally, he clapped his hands together, signaling the end of the sale and positively writhing in false excitement. "Sold, to the fine gentleman in the front!"

Alfred groaned. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

So...I'm thinking of continuing this. Depends. It's off an old prompt from the kink meme, but I think this is going to focus on more plot than porn. The slavery idea is intriguing. But it is M for a reason, because there may be some sex in later chapters, (at the very least there will mentions of Arthur's past, including his capture).

Let me know what you think?  
-Meg


	2. Bought

Alfred stood, walking slowly toward the group of man that had gathered by the side of the stage. He felt lightheaded. What had he been thinking, buying a slave? He was no better than the rest of the bidders, jumping at the prospect of owning the sandy-haired man and abandoning his principles in favour of material gains. He ignored the voice in the back of his mind that argued that he had been trying to help, that he'd been too caught up in the heat of the moment to think rationally, that surely a life of servitude to someone as gentle as himself would be preferable to a life with Ivan.

The auctioneer strode over to the men, much more somber now that the bidding was over with. "Right this way, gentlemen." He led the group to a small entranceway, presumably leading backstage. He paused behind a thick curtain to discuss with a manager, waving for the group to move on ahead. Most of the winners moved forward impassively, apparently used to the payment procedures. Alfred shook as he trailed behind, wary of what he might see. Visions of cages and whips filled his mind, slowing his steps to a reluctant shuffle as he neared the end of the small passageway.

Finally, he emerged into a large room, sucking in a breath at what he saw. It wasn't as bad as he had originally thought –there were no cages, at least- but the disturbing sight of rows upon rows of slaves, chained to the wall awaiting the next auction, still sickened him. In one corner of the room, the slaves that had been bid on stood awkwardly against the wall while stagehands fastened black leather collars around their necks. The green-eyed slave was slumped against the wall, still coming to terms with his enslavement. Hurriedly signing a check and forcing it into the hands of an attendant, he made his way over to the defeated being on the floor. As he first approached, Alfred thought the man was simply depressed, but as he drew closer he could see the hazy unfocused look in his eyes, and realized that he had not recovered from the effects of the drugs. The man looked the same as he had on the stage, the marks from the whipping still fresh on his chest. The only difference that Alfred could discern was that he now wore a pair of black leather shorts and a matching collar. Alfred curled his lip in disgust. How could anyone be forced to wear something so degrading?

He stood in front of the slave, awkward and self-conscious. He didn't really know what to do. Should he just take the man and go? Would he be able to walk, or would he have to carry him? He wondered what it would look like, an owner carrying his slave. People would stare, he knew that much. Still, he couldn't force the man to walk, not in his current state anyways. As if reading his mind, an attendant approached him, pressing a small black whip and a matching leash into his hands. "These will get him up. They come free with your purchase." Alfred nodded dumbly, muttering his thanks. The attendant stayed, pulling a pair of black leather cuffs from the folds of his suit. "For an extra $40, you can have these. I strongly recommend them, considering his temperament."

Alfred withdrew the desired amount from his pocket, handing it to the attendant before asking, "Um, sorry, but how long is he going to be like that?" He gestured to the semi-conscious Briton.

Smirking, the attendant replied. "Don't worry sir, he'll be fine. A few cracks of the whip and he'll be right as rain. He just needs a little encouragement." Without waiting for Alfred's response, he signaled to a tall man standing in the corner of the room. The slave driver, Alfred assumed worriedly. The burly man uncoiled a thick bullwhip from around his waist, cracking it in the air a few times before lashing out at the defenseless man huddled against the wall, carving two twin marks, bloody and raw, in his upper body. The Englishman flinched, his eyes travelling up to his new tormentor before struggling to haul himself to his feet.

Alfred meanwhile, was protesting vehemently at the treatment of his slave, pleading with the angry slave driver to leave, claiming he could manage. As soon as the attendant left, he rushed forward, pressing the startled Briton against the concrete walls of the theatre in his rush to inspect the damage. The piercing emerald eyes widened for a split second –almost as if he were confused as to why Alfred cared about his wellbeing- before shoving him away roughly, glaring angrily at his new master.

"Stay away from me." Alfred shuddered at his words. They were like knives, piercing his skin easily as they found their target. Still, he persisted, slowly approaching the angry man once more.

"I'm just checking your wounds, alright? Calm down. I promise I'll back off as soon as I make sure that you're okay."

The man glared at him before dropping his gaze, his body deflating as Alfred came closer again, stopping when they were almost nose-to-nose. The American ran his fingers along the deep gashes, marveling at the grotesque accuracy of the slave driver. He had broken the skin, striking the British slave just hard enough to tear through the first layer of muscle, but not enough to cause any permanent damage. He traced the outside of the gashes, unable to look away in morbid fascination. After a few tense moments, the Briton jerked his gaze back up, shoving his new master away again. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. We've got to get those bandaged. Come on, I've got some supplies at home that should suffice." Alfred strode toward the exit, pausing when he realized the Briton hadn't moved from his spot on the wall. "Come on, are you really going to be like that? I'm trying to help you!"

"No, you're not. I'm just another toy to you. Don't lie." Alfred was caught off guard by the response. The man still sounded angry, but now the anger was tinged with a tone of sadness and regret.

"I'm not. I really want to help you! Why can't you see that?" He approached the slave –_his _ slave, he reminded himself- cautiously before grasping his hand. "Please don't be difficult. I don't want to have to hurt you."

In response, the Briton jerked his hand out of the American's sweaty palm, slapping him across the face. "_You_ don't want to hurt me," he spat, anger blazing in his furious emerald eyes. "You stood by and did nothing while I was beaten on stage, and you continued that pattern of indifference a few minutes when I got these, " he pointed to the gashes on his chest frantically, his voice rising in volume. "I can barely stand because of the bloody drugs these wankers keep using on me, and you have done nothing to help." He paused, taking a deep breath, "And that was just today! Where were you on the cold nights where I nearly starved? Where were you when I was beaten and used over and over until I couldn't walk, let alone think? Where were you when they took me from my home?" His voice railed off at this. He stared at the floor for a few seconds before venomously finishing his rant. "And you say you don't want to hurt me. You're the reason I'm like this. You have hurt me far more than any whip or knife ever could."

Alfred stared at the man, unsure of what to say. He felt horrible, realizing that the Briton was right. He hadn't put much thought into this rescue at all. So far, all he had done was hurt the man farther. "I'm sorry."

The Briton looked as though he were about to respond, when he suddenly let out a loud screech, dropping to his knees as the thick whip descended on his abdomen, cleaving through skin and flash as easily as a knife through butter. Alfred jerked his gaze up to meet that of the slave driver. "Sorry sir," the man sneered, kicking the whimpering slave on the floor. "I'll make sure that doesn't happen again." He raised the whip to strike again, grinning cruelly as the Briton's eyes closed in fear.

"STOP!" Alfred's voice carried through the room. "Um, I mean, that won't be necessary. I can handle him on my own, thank you." The slave driver looked unconvinced; swishing the whip through the air in mild annoyance as Alfred hurriedly pressed forward. "I prefer to train them myself, it's better that way. If you beat him here, he's just going to misbehave more when he gets home." Alfred glared at the man, frantically wracking his brains as he tried to think of something that would be appropriate in this sort of situation. "Besides," he managed to stutter out, "I don't want him damaged." The slave driver nodded slowly, coiling the whip and resuming his post in the centre of the room. The small crowd that had formed dissipated as it became clear that the show was over.

The attendant from earlier stayed, approaching the prone man on the ground cautiously. He prodded the limp figure with his boot, peering expectantly at Alfred as he did so. "Sir, would you like me to restrain him for you? Travel would be much easier this way." Alfred nodded, coming to squat next to his slave as he watched the attendant click the leather cuffs into place. The cuffs were then clipped to the metal leash that was then attached to the man's collar. The attendant handed the leash to Alfred, assuring him that he would be easily accessible if he had any further trouble.

Alfred leant down over the Briton, brushing sandy hair from his face and watching as the injured man tried to get his breathing under control. He was trembling uncontrollably, and Alfred felt another pang of guilt and despair settle in his heart at the sight. After a few minutes, he tentatively stroked the man's cheek, cautiously asking if he was able to walk.

"Whatever you wish, _Master_." Was the sarcastic reply. Alfred stayed beside him for a while longer, sitting on the dusty wooden floor and simply watching as the man struggled to overcome the pain and the numbing effects of the drugs that still coursed through his system. Eventually he grew tired of the silence, and tried to make conversation.

"So, I know we got off on the wrong foot before, and I know you don't really trust me, but all this slave and master stuff is starting to freak me out. Do you have a name I can call you by?"

The slave seemed to deflate farther, and Alfred immediately regretting asking. "I'm a slave. I have no name, save for whatever you wish to give me."

Alfred, seeing the man's obvious stress, pressed on. "Alright, assuming I believe in that crap, which I don't, what would you be called if you had a choice? If I ordered you to pick a name, what would it be?"

The slave paused before finally answering. "Arthur. My name is Arthur."

"Alright Arthur, I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones. But you can call me Al. I'm pleased to meet you." He extended his hand toward Arthur. The Briton raised an eyebrow at this, somewhat surprised that the American was treating him as if he were…normal. As if he weren't a slave. Suddenly he was a lot more self-conscious, a faint blush coating his pale cheeks as he remembered he was partly naked and lying on the floor. The collar around his neck seemed suffocating. He cautiously extended his hand, clasping Alfred's weakly, almost afraid that this was just another test. He was pleased to find out that it was not. They shook, and Alfred positively beamed at him before withdrawing his hand and standing. "Do you think you can walk? It's not far, we just have to get to the carriage." Arthur nodded, struggling to gather his feet beneath him. Alfred gripped his arm and helped him stand, reluctantly pulling away at the curious stares from the attendants. The room had mostly emptied by this point, and Alfred was eager to leave, the judgmental scrutiny of the slave traders making him uncomfortable. He held the leash in one hand, gently tugging on the thin leather cord to signal to Arthur that it was time to leave. The British man hobbled behind him, doubled over from the throbbing pain in his chest. Alfred almost dropped the leash, the urge to simply carry Arthur out to the carriage becoming unbearable, but he knew that was not the behavior expected from a Master.

The pair silently made their way toward the door, Arthur pointedly ignoring the sneer of the auctioneer as they passed by. It hurt for him to be seen like this, but he couldn't afford to fight back, not now at least. His wounds hurt far too much, and he could still feel the after effects of the drugs running through his body. It would take a while until he was strong enough to escape. He flinched as he felt a gloved hand come to rest on his shoulder, preventing him from continuing forward. He turned around, coming face to face with the cold blue eyes of the auctioneer. Alfred had noticed the exchange and quickly placed himself between Arthur and the auctioneer, determined to keep the blonde safe. However, nothing could have prepared him for the auctioneer's next words. "Leaving so soon?"

Alfred could only nod, feeling cold dread creep up his spine.

"That's a shame. We can't let you go just yet; you haven't claimed your slave!" He shook his head in mock pity, smirking at Arthur as he did so. "Surely an esteemed businessman such as yourself would be aware of the laws surrounding slaves, correct Mr. Jones?" Without waiting for a response, he continued. "You have to mark them, Mr. Jones. We wouldn't want this beauty to escape, now would we?" His voice was sickly sweet, and Arthur could feel himself start to shake. He was so naive! He had been stupid enough to keep up hope; hope that would only lead to more pain and heartbreak. How could he have believed, even for a moment, that he would escape without this? In hindsight, he realized how moronic his hopes had seemed. Of course the auctioneer wouldn't let him go –he hadn't been branded.

The auctioneer's words finally seemed to click, and Alfred tried to protest. The auctioneer cut him off before he had a chance. "We have the brand ready right now, Mr. Jones. If you would kindly lead your slave over to the far corner of the room, we can begin immediately."

"Actually, I don't think that's necess-"

"Are you implying you want to leave your slave unmarked? That would be illegal Mr. Jones, as you very well know. Besides, it's for the good of society. We wouldn't want these vermin running around everywhere if they escaped. You need to instill the idea that they will never be free from the moment of their capture. It makes them much easier to break." He flashed another evil grin at Arthur.

Alfred could only sigh. "I-I know. I just…"

"Didn't want to mark him?" The blue-eyed man quickly cut in. "I understand perfectly. Many people don't like their slave permanently damaged, but I assure you, the brand is quite small. Now, if you'll allow me, we can get the process underway." He took the leash from Alfred's numb hands and proceeded to drag Arthur over to a small forge, where yet another slave driver sat waiting, slowly rotating a hot metal poker in the fire.

"Here's the last one, make sure you mark him well." The auctioneer threw Arthur at his feet, sneering as he struggled to maintain his balance with his hands cuffed together. "Now," he continued, addressing Arthur once more, "Where shall we mark you? I think the shoulder would be too mundane, far too easy to cover with a scarf or a shirt. No, we need to make sure you remember your place every moment of the day. Perhaps your inner thigh? Yes, that could work. It won't be as hard to hide as a brand on the shoulder, but this way, every time your _Master..."_ he made sure to accentuate the last word before continuing, "Decides to use you, you will know who you belong to. Even if you somehow manage to escape, build a new life, and -heaven forbid- find a wife, your past will haunt you. You will never be able to father children without knowing your true place in this world." He tied the leash tightly to a ring in the floor, preventing the slave from lifting his head or shifting his upper body. He then motioned for the slave driver to spread his legs, pulling down the short leather shorts as he did so. Arthur could feel tears pricking at his eyes as he was put on display, the memories of his training swimming sickeningly before his eyes. He angrily willed them away. He would be strong. He couldn't show weakness, not now, not when he was so close to leaving this place.

Alfred, shocked by the display and paling considerably at Arthur's distress, stepped forward again, determined to stop the procedures, but was interrupted by the auctioneer once more. "Now I know what you're thinking Mr. Jones, but I assure you, this is normal procedure, and to get in the way of things could end badly. It will all be over soon enough." He turned his back on the businessman, pressing the heel of his boot to the small of the slave's back and forcing him against the rough floorboards. The slave driver spread Arthur's legs wider as the auctioneer withdrew the glowing poker from the fire, and Alfred couldn't help but stare as he slowly lowered the blistering metal to the milky inside of the Brit's thigh. The sizzle of metal on skin echoed through the room, and the smell of burning flesh quickly filled the air, spilling into Alfred's lungs and choking him. Worst of all were Arthur's screams. He howled in agony, fighting desperately to escape the horrible, searing, pain that tore through his body. The auctioneer grinned evilly and pressed the brand deeper, laughing as the young man's screams increased substantially in volume. Finally, he pulled the scalding metal away, tossing the brand carelessly into the fire as he leaned down to inspect the fresh mark. He traced his fingers over it, enjoying the empty sobs that managed to escape through the slave's clenched teeth. He untied the leash, handing it back to Alfred who stared, too shocked to move, at the pitiful form on the ground beneath him. Pressed into Arthur's skin were two ornate letters, A.J. Alfred Jones. A small circle of burnt flesh surrounded the markings, presumably to add some visual appeal to the otherwise hideous burns.

The slave driver released Arthur's legs, yanking the tight leather shorts over the fresh brand as he did so. The slave let out a choking howl as the rough material scraped against his burning flesh before falling silent once more.

The auctioneer kicked him in the side, ordering him to get up. Surprisingly, he managed to stand. His eyes remained trained on the floor as he stood next to Alfred, fighting to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes. He would get through this. He had to.

Alfred gazed worriedly at Arthur before turning toward the exit, muttering a scathing 'Good day' to the auctioneer as he fought the urge to sprint from the building. Still, he kept his pace slow and even as Arthur walked behind him, still refusing to look anywhere but the floor. Only when they had left the theatre did Alfred turn around, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the Brit shiver beneath his fingers, but refused to let go. Not yet. "I'm sorry," he chocked, the horrors of what he had witnessed finally settling in his mind. "I'm so, so, sorry." The Brit lifted his head minutely, just enough to meet Alfred's sorrowful blue eyes. He made a noncommittal noise of acceptance before training his eyes back on the ground, looking up only to enter the luxurious carriage parked near the theatre entrance. Alfred murmured a few instructions to the driver before joining him, seating himself on the fine velvet cushions next to Arthur.

It suddenly dawned on Alfred that the British man looked exhausted, the black rings around his eyes accentuated by the dim lighting in the carriage. He seemed to be trying very had to stay awake. 'The pain must be getting to him,' Alfred thought silently, staring worriedly at the other man. 'He's had a rough day –a rough life, really- and I haven't done much to make things easier on him.' Without thinking, he pulled him into a gentle embrace, ignoring the way his muscles tensed at the sudden contact. He ran one hand through the sandy blonde hair, using the other to rub comforting circles in the other's back.

Slowly, the Brit began to relax into the embrace, his eyes slipping shut as the soothing touches lulled him to sleep. As much as he loathed to admit it, the drugs were still affecting him, and the constant throbbing in his chest and thigh was making his head fuzzy and blissfully numb. The sounds of the carriage and the crowded city streets became dulled and meaningless in his ears as he sank deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, a warm fuzzy feeling gradually replacing the ache and burn that coursed through his tired frame. The last thing he could remember before sleep finally claimed him were Alfred's whispered words, "Welcome to your new life, Arthur."

* * *

Whew, not bad for a night's work.  
I'm alternating between updating 3 stories, depending on what mood I'm in, so if I stop updating this frequently, it's because of that. Or, you know, maybe I want to have a social life :P  
Anyway, thanks so much for the reviews, it's nice to hear people's opinions on my writing :) I'm not done yet, not even close. This is probably going to go on for a bit, because the plot's going to start later on when a 'mysterious someone' comes into the story and starts screwing things up.  
Let me know what you think of this so far,  
-Meg


	3. Trust

Arthur regained consciousness slowly, his sore limbs reflexively stretching as his emerald eyes fluttered open. He was first aware of the soft blankets that covered his thin frame. He hadn't felt this warm since his days back in England. The thought caused a pang of loneliness to bloom momentarily in his chest, but he quickly brushed it aside, realizing that there were more important things to worry about. Foremost, he was in an unfamiliar room with no memories of the past night or how he got there. He gazed blackly at the light blue walls, frowning at the stream of bright yellow sunlight that seeped in through a crack in the heavy curtains. Presumably the curtains covered a large window. Thoughts of escape flitted through his mind, but he pushed them down almost immediately. He could barely sit up, let alone flee the numerous slave catchers that roamed the city. With a sigh, he lay back in the bed, groaning at the painful throb in his abdomen.

Millions of questions plagued his tired mind, fighting for dominance. Who's bed was he in? Why did his thigh hurt? What happened last night? Thoughts of torture and rape were quick to plague his heart, but he denied them, forcing himself to come to another conclusion. He hadn't come this far to give up. He rolled onto his stomach, forcing his protesting muscles into a more comfortable position and closing his eyes as he tried to think back to the auction.

He remembered Francis, the creepy auctioneer, cornering him before the show, forcing him into a corner away from the other slaves. Shame and regret pooled in his stomach as he recalled how he had been untied, how he had run while the auctioneer had his back turned, how he had been cornered by his greatest foe, alone and vulnerable in the alleyway behind the theatre. Freedom had been in his sights; Francis being the only man stopping him from running out onto the busy streets, and Arthur had taken the bait and foolishly tried to fight him. The French man was obviously expecting it, and came prepared. He pulled a small revolver from his pocket, leveling it at the Brit's forehead and ordering him to stand against the wall. Arthur had complied, having seen what cruelties the auctioneer was capable of, and with a resounding click, his fate was sealed. His hands were cuffed together, and Arthur had waited, expecting to be led inside and whipped. Francis had a different, darker, punishment in mind.

Arthur had been naked. Like the rest of the slaves, the only garment he wore was the thick leather collar around his neck. Francis had shoved him against the wall, laughing evilly, his breath hot against the shell of Arthur's ear as he slid his hands down Arthur's back, finally coming to rest at his unprotected entrance. Arthur had kicked and punched, screaming for help and trying desperately to get free, but it was no use. Months of abuse and starvation had weakened him significantly, and he soon found himself lying on the ground, Francis towering over him, leering suggestively.

"You know what to do."

Arthur shut his mouth, turning his head violently to the side and squeezing his eyes shut as Francis unzipped his trousers, prodding at the slave's lips. When he refused to open them, Francis had laughed, purring in his ear, "I would advise you to open up, _cher_, unless you want it to hurt more than it has to." And he had opened his mouth, fighting back tears of shame as the hard flesh slid over his tongue, choking him. He felt disgusting. He relaxed his jaw and waited for it to be over with, refusing to participate any more than he had to. Francis had slapped him disapprovingly. "This is why you failed your training. If you had just obeyed, you might not be in this situation. Although," he chuckled darkly, "I'm glad that you are." Arthur had but down then, angrily glaring at his tormentor and smirking slightly at the howl of pain that escaped his lips. The auctioneer's hands had fisted in his sandy blonde hair, jerking his head back so it smacked against the dirty pavement. "You'll pay for that," he hissed, letting the words ring ominously. And then he had thrust in, ignoring his own pain, determined to make Arthur scream. And he did. It felt like he was being ripped in two, the burning pain spreading through his body as he tightened reflexively, trying to halt the Frenchman's progress. Francis had ignored him, forcing himself in and out until finally he finished, coating Arthur's insides before pulling out.

He dragged Arthur to his feet, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. "You're lucky you're being sold tonight, or I would have done much worse. You are nothing, a pitiful sub-human, a pet, and from this evening onwards, you will live that life. I know you think you're going back, that you'll somehow escape, but I can assure you that it's not going to happen. You will spend the rest of your life reliving this moment, trapped in the home of some wealthy businessman, forced to obey, and there is nothing you can do about it. Now get back inside, you sniveling excuse of a slave, so I can make you presentable for the auction."

Arthur had been forced back into the theatre, where a stagehand had doused his thin frame with a bucket of cold water. Francis then toweled him off, mopping up the leftover semen between his legs. He had prodded gently at his entrance, and Arthur had been so sure that he would be raped again, the memories of his brutal 'training' flashing before his eyes. To his relief the auctioneer had stood, smirking at Arthur's terrified expression. "We're done, for now, although if no one bids I might just consider keeping you for myself. Wouldn't that be lovely?" He prodded at the slave's entrance again, causing some of the leftover fluids –A pinkish mixture of blood and semen- to ooze out. "I'm not going to clean you any more. I want you to walk out onto that stage, knowing that I'm inside you. You'll never be free, Arthur." And then he had led him back to the line of slaves about to be auctioned.

Arthur opened his eyes, gasping for breath and sweating profusely as the last tinges of the memory echoed in his mind. He hadn't expected it to be so vivid. He raised a hand to wipe at his eyes and found that he had been crying. He mentally slapped himself, hating how easily the tears came, how right Francis had been. He didn't know where he was, or why his thigh hurt, but one thing was clear: he had been sold. He forced himself to think back to the auction, desperately trying to figure out who had bought him.

He had been onstage, and the auctioneer had whipped him…that explained the bruises and gashes on his torso…but what about his thigh? Arthur fought down the rising panic in his chest as he struggled to recall the remainder of the evening. He had been on stage, he knew that much for sure. And he had fought with the auctioneer, during the auction…and then… they had injected something into his neck. The rest of the night was a blur, random memories swirling in his head with no order or meaning. There was a blonde man, and the auctioneer, and a slave driver…wait, he'd been bought by the blonde man. They shook hands. Alfred, that was his name. Alfred Jones. They'd been leaving, and the auctioneer had stopped them…and he'd been tied down. Ah, that explained the pain in his thigh -he'd been branded. And then he'd gotten into a carriage, and everything went black. Things didn't look very promising.

Arthur lifted the heavy blankets that covered his aching body, sighing in relief as he discovered he was still clothed. Well, he was wearing the leather shorts anyway. He couldn't bring himself to call the revealing garments 'clothes'. He slowly pulled them off, wincing at the bloody stain on the inside from Francis's activities. He parted his legs and peered anxiously at the junction where his thigh met his hip, gasping slightly at the puckered red wound that marred his otherwise pale skin. He was so absorbed with the sheer horror of the wound that he didn't notice the door quietly creak open. Only when the bed dipped next to him did he look up.

Alfred was sitting next to him, concern reflecting in his clear blue eyes. For a moment, the two merely stared at each other, not knowing what to say. Arthur could feel a deep crimson blush coating his cheeks as he withered under the American's concerned stare. Finally, Alfred broke the silence. "So, um, you're awake."

Arthur bit back a sarcastic retort, nodding in response to the American's inane statement. Of course he was awake. How could he be expected to sleep with the horrible ache from his brand?

Alfred continued, trying his best to ignore Arthur's annoyed glare. "You were pretty beat up last night, and you ended up falling asleep in the carriage on the way here, so I couldn't check out the cuts on your chest." He paused awkwardly before continuing, "Or, you know, your…mark." Arthur flinched as the American tried to change the subject. "I didn't really want to freak you out, so I just put you to bed. But I really need to take a look at your injuries now, or else they'll get infected."

Arthur treated the American to another scathing glare before muttering to himself sarcastically, "Oh, we can't have that, now can we?"

Unfortunately, the American heard him. "What?"

"You don't want your property to be damaged." Arthur spat, turning away from the businessman.

"Hey now, that's not true!" Alfred whined, resting a hand on Arthur's shoulder and ignoring his obvious flinch. "I care a lot about you, why can't you see that?"

Arthur had had enough. "I'm not stupid, you prat. I'm a slave. You're my master. You bought me at an auction. Let's skip the act and just get to the part where you use me and abuse me, just like everyone else."

Alfred had stared, blue eyes widening as he took in Arthur's words. He felt awful. Here he was, sitting on his guest room bed, trying to console his slave, whom he had bought at an auction, which he had promised himself he would never attend. He was so stupid! Maybe the other businessmen were right. Maybe slaves did want to be used. He couldn't imagine any other reason for Arthur's hostility. Alfred had done his best to treat him like a friend, putting as little emphasis as possible on the fact that technically, he owned the Brit. And Arthur hated him for it. He looked away, not wanting the Brit to see how much his words had hurt him. "Do you really want that?" He whispered, hesitantly removing his arm from Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur started at the American's response. He was expecting a beating, a whipping, something; anything, so long as it was physical, something that he could understand. He could almost feel the harsh leather cutting into his skin, the bruises forming on his chest and back. Why couldn't Alfred be like the others? In the brutal months after his capture, he had learned to abandon his emotions in favour of the more physical feelings that coursed through his body. It helped him cope with what had happened, what he had become. And now this American idiot had to come along and mess things up.

He guiltily looked up at the sorrowful blue eyes that stared into his own. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. "I-I'm not what you wanted. I'm a bit of a lost cause, really." He laughed blackly, the noise echoing in the still air of the guest room, sounding hollow and forced. "I'm not used to being treated like this. I'm supposed to be hurt, can't you see that?" His voice rose in pitch until it was almost a whimper. "I don't think I know anything else."

He was thrown off guard when Alfred threw his arms around him, pulling him tight to his chest and burrowing his face in the Brit's shoulder. "Oh Arthur," he whispered, running his hands down the smaller man's back in soothing circles. "You deserve so much better."

Arthur closed his eyes at the American's words. "No, I don't. I can't. I'm broken."

"No, Arthur, you're not." The American continued to rub comforting circles into the Brit's back until he stopped shivering. "You alright?" He asked, dreading the reply.

Arthur nodded, hesitantly wrapping his arms around the American to return the hug. Alfred beamed, happily squeezing back before releasing the Brit and stepping off the bed. "Come on then, let's get those cuts of yours checked out."

Arthur nodded, moving to follow his host –_master;_ he corrected himself- to the bathroom. He was about three steps away from the bed when he realized he was naked. Blushing profusely, he darted back to fetch a large, green quilt, wrapping it around his shoulders so that it covered his body. Alfred simply smiled that sad smile –which Arthur was coming to hate rather quickly, something about it just seemed wrong on the American's face- before leading the way to the bathroom. He motioned for Arthur to sit on the edge of an ornate bathtub as he rifled through a large chest of drawers, searching for the supplies necessary for treating the Brit's wounds. When he had everything ready, he spoke, blushing slightly at what he was about to do.

"Um, I'm sorry Arthur, but could you please, uh, spread your legs for me? I need to see the burn." He averted his gaze, awkwardly staring at the floor as he waited for the Brit's angry reply. To his surprise, he got a sort of embarrassed scowl before the quilt was tossed to the floor. Alfred knelt down to examine the wound, determinedly keeping his eyes strictly below the waist –or as low as he could, seeing as the mark was situated right beside his cock, on the inside of his pale thigh. He couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful the Englishman's skin looked. It was smooth to the touch, coated in a fine layer of light blonde hair. Drawing his attention away from the more...intimate… details of Arthur's body, he focused his gaze on the brand once more. Or tried to, seeing as a significant part of Arthur's anatomy was in the way. Looking up hopelessly at the Brit, he found that the other had his eyes tightly closed, his lips moving in a silent prayer each time Alfred moved his hand along the pale skin of his thighs. "Hey Arthur?" He asked hesitantly. "Um, can you maybe, help me out here? I kind of need a clear view." Arthur reluctantly opened his eyes, somewhat surprised that Alfred didn't just grab him like everyone else. The American had asked Arthur before touching him. The idea was sort of pleasing, and Arthur could feel something suspiciously like hope beginning to grow in his heart. Maybe Alfred wasn't all bad.

Arthur pulled his member out of the way, shivering lightly as Alfred nudged his legs farther apart. The American traced his fingers around the bloody wound, prodding at the reddened flesh cautiously as he fought to keep from vomiting at the sight. He chanced a glance at the Brit's face, noticing that his eyes were closed again. A faint red blush tinged his cheeks, quickly spreading to his chest and shoulders as Alfred continued to examine the wound. No wonder the auctioneer had been so keen to brand him there; it was obvious that it would be impossible to hide if he were to do anything intimate.

Alfred applied a liberal amount of disinfectant before covering the burn with cool gauze. He thought about taping the bandages in place, but decided against it, realizing that binding the wound would be much more effective. He motioned for Arthur to stand, wrapping the bandages around his upper thigh as he did so. As he passed the roll of gauze through the Briton's legs however, Alfred noticed something…odd. A pinkish smear was barely visible on the inside of his opposite thigh.

At first, Alfred thought it was some form of makeup, that maybe the slaves were painted before an auction so that they looked healthier. "Hey Arthur, why do you have paint on your thigh?" Alfred asked, worrying his lip when the Brit looked away. "S'not paint." He mumbled, refusing to meet the American's eyes.

"Hmm? Well is it a birthmark or something? 'Cause it' doesn't look like it. And it's such an off colour too. It's almost a faded red. Did you fall in something last night?" Arthur gave no response, shaking slightly as Alfred rambled on, oblivious to Arthur's mental turmoil. Finally Alfred quieted, continuing to stare for a few moments before the implications of Arthur's words hit him. "Wait…oh Arthur, tell me it isn't!"

The Brit could only nod miserably. Alfred stared. Silence echoed through the small room for a good few minutes as Alfred tried to understand. Finally he was able to speak, though his words were laced with nothing but thinly veiled rage. "No wonder you're so upset! I'm going to kill that auctioneer –it was him, right? Well, either way, someone's going to pay for this."

Arthur didn't respond, feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Alfred knew. The only person to treat him like a human in at least a year knew about Francis. And how long would it be until he found out about the others? What would he think? He'd probably whip him; punish him for being a disobedient slut. Things would go right back to how they were. Francis was right; Arthur would never be free.

Alfred finally noticed Arthur's misery and pulled him into a tight hug, uncaring of the fact that Arthur was completely naked, save for the collar. "I'm sorry Arthur. I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."

Arthur let out a shaky breath. "It's alright."

"No, it's not. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you."

"You couldn't have stopped them. It's not your fault." He was still shocked that the American hadn't been angry; if one of the slave drivers found that someone else had used him first, they would beat him, then rape him again first thing the next morning. He assumed the owners would be no different. Why should the American blame himself when Arthur was clearly the one at fault?

"It's my fault for not challenging this system sooner," the American continued, as if reading Arthur's thoughts. "Don't you try and deny that, we both know it's true. But don't worry Arthur; from now on I'm going to be your hero. I'm not going to let anyone touch you."

Arthur gave him a soft smile, wanting desperately to believe the American. "Thank you, Alfred."

"You're welcome." The American pressed a chaste kiss to the Brit's forehead, pulling him tighter against him and sighing contentedly, enjoying the moment. After a few moments, he noticed that the Brit had gone stiff in his arms. He then realized what he had done. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, I didn't mean it like that, the kiss, it's just-"

"It's alright Alfred. I-" Arthur's voice cracked for a second, but he pressed forward anyway, wrapping his arms around the American and uttering the three words he hadn't spoken for a long, long time. "I trust you."

* * *

So there's chapter 3 up. I'm not very happy with how it turned out. Oh well. For people who like rape and fluff, this is the chapter for you :D  
I tried to keep the rape part "tasteful" by not mentioning anything specific, but I think I failed at this.  
The next chapter will be more interesting, I promise.  
Let me know how you feel about things (if you want). Thanks,  
-Meg


	4. Mine

Things had improved marginally since Arthur's admission of trust. He was still scared and confused, hopelessly lost in the new life that had been forced upon him, but he managed. Or that's what he liked to think. His time in captivity had made more of an impact than he had initially thought. He still wasn't used to Alfred's kindness, and it showed. He still hadn't overcome his initial fear that this was all a test, a cruel game of some sort, and that he would wake up one morning and Francis would be leering at him, whip in hand, and the torture would start again. Worse yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that Alfred was hiding something. The American would get nervous and jumpy whenever a visitor came to his door.

Of course, the discovery of this paranoia was less than pleasant. After Arthur's wounds had been bandaged, Alfred had gone downstairs of some breakfast. The very thought of food had Arthur salivating, and he had followed, not knowing what else to do. They had just reached the root of the stairs when the postman had rung the doorbell, peering in through the window to see if the businessman was home. Alfred had shoved the Brit back up the stairs, hissing angrily for him to stay silent and motioning for him to hide. Arthur had hurried back to his room and crouched under the bed, afraid of a beating. He stayed, tucked away in the cramped, dark, space for what seemed like an eternity, ignoring the slam of the door and Alfred's call for him to come out of hiding. He had pressed himself against the back wall, fearing the worst, and that was how Alfred had found him. It had taken several strong reassurances from the American to get him to come out.

Meanwhile, the postman merely wanted Alfred to collect a package that had been too large to fit in the letterbox.

Now, the two sat side by side on the bed, silently contemplating the events of the morning. Alfred, silently cursing his stupidity, and Arthur mentally berating himself for his weakness. It didn't help that Arthur was still naked, save for the stupid collar. He kept restlessly shifting his position, trying to find a way to cover as much of himself as possible without looking too odd. Alfred, as usual, was oblivious. Thankfully, the American had let him clean himself up after the incident in the bathroom, but the slimy, dirty crawling under his skin persisted. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling of dread that kept clawing up his throat. He had been purchased as a slave, and no matter how odd the American acted around him, he had purchased him with a specific intent in mind. Arthur had yet to figure out what it was.

Still, the kindness Alfred showed him was surprising. Even now, the simple act of keeping his eyes firmly trained on anything but Arthur's naked form was a small blessing, one that he would never have thought possible from an owner. He just couldn't understood the American's motivation, his reasons for dragging a filthy, haggard, slave into his home and doing absolutely nothing, simply _talking_ as if they were equals. Maybe he had some weird fetish. Maybe he was waiting, luring him into a false sense of security so that when he finally did break, he could savor the moment. Arthur sighed, realizing that he would just have to wait and find out. It wasn't as if he had a choice.

Still, regardless of the dread curling in his stomach, Arthur liked to think he could trust the American. He already did, to a certain extent. It was just a matter of extending that trust so that it covered more than spur-of-the-moment happenings, so that he could finally be free of that nagging voice in his head that reminded him of his position as a slave. Pulling his attention back to the despondent American, he gave a small cough, hoping the American would break the tense silence.

Alfred stood, a thin smile gracing his lips. "Sorry about that." Arthur muttered that it was no problem, that he should have known better than to have followed him downstairs. Alfred turned to face him, cupping the Brit's despondent face in his hands as he stared into his shining emerald eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for. I panicked when I shouldn't have, and you reacted in the only way you know how." He paused, gaze shifting to the floor before continuing, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm going to change that, don't worry. One day, you're going to stop being afraid." Arthur wanted to tell him that he wasn't afraid, that he was just trying to avoid causing any more unnecessary trouble, and that he had no right to become so protective, but the words died in his throat upon seeing the look on the American's face. He looked utterly miserable, his usually bright blue eyes dull and glossy. Hesitantly, he placed his palm over the American's knee, anxiously watching for a reaction. Alfred met his eyes again, sighing before continuing. "I know I probably scared you. I'm really sorry, it's just that there's this guy…never mind. It's not important." He bit his lip, refusing to look at Arthur.

Arthur sighed, cursing the idiot for not finishing his sentences. "Look, I'm not afraid of you. I'm not a bloody glass doll; I can take care of myself. If something's bothering you, do the world a favour and tell me instead of clamming up! Because now that you bloody _own_ me," he spat the last few words angrily before continuing, "Anything that concerns you becomes my concern too."

Alfred smiled slightly, clasping the Brit's hand in his own. "Thanks Arthur. That means a lot, coming from you. And you shouldn't worry, I'm not going to keep secrets from you. Well, nothing concerning you anyway. I don't think you want to know every detail of my day." He gave a small laugh before pulling Arthur to his feet, ignoring the rosy blush that started up the man's cheeks as he did so. "Come on, let's get some breakfast." He started toward the door; stopping when he realized the Englishman wasn't following. "What's the matter? Not hungry?" Arthur had turned a nice shade of lobster red by this point, acutely aware of the American's penetrating gaze. How could the idiot be so dense? He made a non-committal grunt, unsure of whether he was allowed to ask for some clothes. Maybe this is why Alfred had purchased him. Maybe he was to be a sort of living sculpture in his household? Alfred finally noticed the heavy blush covering the majority of Arthur's skin, taking in the Brit's appearance for the first time. "Oh. Um, sorry, I hadn't really noticed…er, what I mean is, um, we should get you some clothes." He cursed himself for being unable to speak properly. His gaze flicked over the pair of tight leather shorts still resting on the bed. Those would never do, especially since he was trying to get Arthur to trust him, not kill him. He noticed Arthur following his gaze and smiled sheepishly. "I suppose you'd need something other than those, huh?"

Arthur stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Of course he'd want some new clothes, the shorts were unbearably revealing, much too tight on his sore skin, and to top it off, they chaffed horribly. However, as horrible as the shorts were, he wasn't about to do anything to displease Alfred. It was strange; has this been any other household, he would have fought and kicked, burrowing under the bed sheets to hide from the accusing glares thrown his way. He could recall his training, where he had been first stripped of his clothes, and therefore his dignity. He remembered being whipped for hiding his body, for trying to retain what little semblance of humanity he had left. And then Alfred had found him, and his world had changed. He wasn't about to throw that away over something as petty as clothing. Alfred seemed to understand his silence, and threw open the wide closet doors, rifling through various outfits to try and find something suitable for his new houseguest. "I think green would go nicely with your eyes, but I'm not sure I have anything in that colour that would fit you."

Arthur managed a weak smile. Green was his favourite colour. "Whatever you have is fine…thank you."

"No, I'm going to try and find something that you like. This is your new life, remember? That means new clothes, new food, the whole deal. Tomorrow we can go shopping and pick out some new clothes, but I don't think you want to wander around naked until then." He continued pulling clothes from the closet, discarding a vast majority because they were too big for the lithe Brit. "Sorry this is taking so long," Alfred muttered over his shoulder. "It's just that, well, nothing fits. I mean, no offense, but I'm a little bigger than you."

Arthur looked down at his skinny body. It was true. The slave drivers hadn't fed any of the captives well, and because of his disobedience he had often gone hungry. He hadn't realized how thin he had become until Alfred had pointed it out. He traced his hands along his torso, eyes widening as he felt the pronounced bump of each individual rib. Suddenly self-conscious, he sat down on the bed, pulling the blankets up to his neck to hide his body as he nervously watched his new master.

"Don't worry Arthur, after a week with me you'll wish you were skinny! We're having cheeseburgers as soon as we find you some clothes." Arthur rolled his eyes at the American's enthusiasm, but he was secretly glad to be given the opportunity to eat. He hadn't had a cheeseburger in what felt like forever, and while he used to despise the greasy food, he now found that he couldn't wait for breakfast. Anything would be better than the slop he was used to. Finally, Alfred managed to find something that would fit Arthur. Grinning triumphantly, he shoved a pair of black pants in the Brit's face. "I know they aren't much, but these pants are the only pair in the closet that might fit you. You can just borrow one of my shirts or something after breakfast." Arthur dumbly nodded, blushing as Alfred and into his bedroom only to return with a pair of boxers, a plain white dress shirt, and some socks. "Are these good enough?"

"Yes, thank you." He replied, hastily pulling on the boxers and forcing his legs into the pants as quickly as possible. Only when he was sure he was covered did he look up, smiling slightly at the hopeful expression on Alfred's face. "These are perfect," he murmured, buttoning up the shirt. When he reached the shirt's collar, he found it wouldn't close. Seeing the Brit's confusion, Alfred stepped in nervously. "Um, you still have the collar on." Of course. The collar. No wonder it wouldn't do up. He stared at Alfred, wondering what to do. Should he just leave the shirt undone?

"Here," Alfred murmured, coming up behind the Brit and fumbling with the collar. "You don't have to wear this anymore." He pulled a small key from his pocket, swiftly undoing the lock and unwinding the thick leather from Arthur's neck. Arthur smiled then, truly smiled, and hugged the American, whispering a small "thank you" before buttoning up the shirt.

"You don't have to thank me. I told you, this house is just as much yours as it is mine. I'm the hero, remember?" He flashed a bright grin at the Brit before skipping out of the room, eagerly planning out their day. Arthur followed, padding down the stairs and entering the American's massive kitchen. Alfred had already managed to get most of the ingredients out of the storeroom, and was eagerly slicing tomatoes. Arthur watched him cut for a while, licking his lips hungrily when Alfred popped a slice into his mouth. "Want one?"

"A-Are you sure?"

"Of course! You must be starving!" It was hard to believe a single slice of tomato could taste so good. Even so, Arthur was convinced that he had never tasted anything quite so delicious.

Lunch was fairly predictable, aside from Alfred's petty sulking when Arthur finished his second burger before Alfred had finished his first. The Brit had smiled sheepishly, apologizing even as he reached for yet another, laughing as Alfred rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. In reality, he was just happy the Brit was eating something. Alfred was relieved that Arthur was opening up; even the small victories, like when he had stolen a few sips of Alfred's milk when he wasn't particularly paying attention, brought a smile to his face. It seemed like Arthur was getting some of his courage back. After a few hours with him, Alfred could already see the difference in his attitude. He would still tense at loud noises, or avoid windows for fear of being seen, but he would also laugh more, allow Alfred to touch him without going on the defensive, and even make the occasional sarcastic comment to put the American in his place. Alfred was shocked to discover that even after a few short hours of living with the Englishman, he was becoming addicted to the crisp, clear, laugh he possessed. He made it his mission to hear it more often.

It was only when the two were doing the dishes, (more accurately, when Arthur was doing the dishes while Alfred 'supervised') where things began to go wrong. Alfred had splashed some suds from the dish soap in Arthur's face, to which the Englishman had retaliated by scooping a large handful of the bubbles from the sink and throwing them in the American's hair. The two had proceeded to have a small water fight, splashing the lukewarm suds across the kitchen and giggling like small children. Soon the pair had collapsed in the centre of the expensive hardwood floor, –now covered in soapsuds and water- laughing uncontrollably. Which is how Ivan Braginski had found them.

"Comrade Alfred," his voice rang out through the kitchen, cutting through the happy laughter like a knife.

The room was instantly silent. Cautiously, Alfred detangled himself from Arthur's limbs, pulling himself off of the floor as he turned to face Ivan. "Ivan! What are you doing here? Don't you know how to knock?" He spat, glaring warily at the large Russian.

"I was just coming to congratulate you on your purpose, and to offer you some help in his training. I know vermin like him are often hard to control. But I see you already have things…under control."

Alfred growled, slowly advancing toward the Russian. "For one, his name is Arthur. And he's not vermin. I don't know what you commies do in Russia, but in America, we knock before inviting ourselves into people's homes. And I don't need any help 'training' him, thank you. You can go now."

Ivan merely smiled, withdrawing a rusty faucet-pipe from his coat. "I am sorry comrade Alfred, I did not mean to intrude. I was just so…intrigued by the activities from last night; I thought I would see if you needed any help. You can hardly blame me, you saw how _Arthur_ behaved onstage."

"Well, I've got everything covered, thanks, so you can leave. We're kind of busy here." He slowly edged backward, keeping himself between the Russian and Arthur, who was still on the floor, watching the proceedings with fearful eyes.

Ivan chuckled darkly at Alfred's insistence that he leave. He calmly strode past the American, casually shoving him into the wall as though he weighed nothing and crouching down next to Arthur. He grabbed a fistful of the Brit's sandy hair, ignoring his cries of pain and pulling him to his feet. "So, you are Arthur, da?"

Arthur glared at the Russian, refusing to talk. There was no sense in replying; the Russian would do whatever he wanted regardless.

Ivan carried on as though nothing was out of the ordinary. "I am Ivan Braginski, the man who _almost _purchased you last night." He twisted the Brit's head painfully to the side, tracing the pipe down Arthur's pale neck. "Hmm, you seem weaker than you were on stage. Maybe Alfred is not as bad a master as I thought."

Alfred perked up at the mention of his name, forcing himself to stand and approach the large man once more. "Leave him alone Braginski, he's not your slave." Ivan struck out with the pipe, not even looking as it connected with flesh, striking the American twice in the ribs and giggling gleefully as he collapsed on the floor, struggling to breathe through the pain. He turned his attention back to Arthur, failing to notice the subtle tightening of the Brit's muscles as he stared him down. "Such a weak boy, it's a pity I had to break him. And look at you, you useless boy. Your master is lying on the ground and you can only stare. What a pathetic coward. You can't even save the only person who cares about you." Arthur growled, and Ivan's eyes widened in the fraction of a second before Arthur ripped his head out of the Russian's grasp, ignoring the sting in favour of grabbing the large vegetable knife from the sink. Leveling the blade at the Russian, his gaze flicked worriedly from Alfred to Ivan, internally panicking at how easily Alfred had gone down. "Get out." The knife was the only thing keeping him from ending up like the American, or worse -dead. He was a slave after all. There would be no punishment if he were murdered.

"Comrade, you are starting to annoy me." Ivan growled in warning, a dark aura seeming to permeate the air around him. Arthur didn't back down, advancing slowly on the Russian, determined to protect Alfred. After all the American had done for him, it was the least he could do to pay him back. Besides, if he had to die, he might as well do so by taking down one of the most evil men on the planet. Arthur was surprised that he could call him evil, having only known him for five minutes, but he knew he wasn't wrong. There was no mercy in Ivan's cold violet eyes.

Ivan seemed to sense his aggression, and he reluctantly backed out of the kitchen, his arms raised in a motion of surrender. Only when he was outside the threshold did Arthur lower the knife, preparing to lock the heavy oak door and be done with it. As soon as he dropped his guard Ivan reacted, cupping his chin in a cold hand and venomously spitting in the Brit's face, "You may think you're free, slave, but you are wrong. You will be mine, and you will suffer for your actions today." With that he was gone, striding down the path away from Alfred's manor. Within minutes he was lost from Arthur's sight.

Arthur's hands shook as he slammed the heavy door, checking the lock before trotting back to the kitchen to examine the injured American. When he arrived, Alfred had pulled himself into a sitting position and was holding a cold cloth to his bruising ribs. As if sensing Arthur's worried questions, he smiled, patting the floor and motioning for Arthur to come sit next to him. Arthur slid down the wall, already reaching for Alfred's torso. "It's alright Arthur, it's just a few bruises." Arthur nodded silently, Ivan's words replaying in his mind. Weak. Useless. Coward. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling the familiar guilt beginning to pool in his stomach. Why couldn't he do anything right?

"Hey, it's not your fault. You stood up to him, Arthur. You made him leave when I couldn't. You're a hero." He pulled the despondent Brit into a tight hug, ignoring the ache in his protesting ribs. Arthur nodded silently, grateful for Alfred's presence. Alfred continued on, stroking his back gently, calming him down from his scare. "Don't worry Arthur, he just does these things to scare people. If you just ignore him, he can't hurt you." Arthur glanced at the American's bruised ribs, a skeptical look crossing his face. Alfred had ignored his taunts, only attacking the large man when it was absolutely necessary, and look what happened. Alfred continued, determined to reassure the Englishman. "He plays mind games, Arthur. Whatever he said, you have to ignore it. If you don't, you're playing right into his hands. If you just trust yourself, everything will be fine. Besides, I'm not going to let him anywhere near you ever again. I'm the hero, remember? It's my job to protect you." Arthur nodded, too exhausted to point out the fact that he had been the one to save Alfred, and that he was perfectly capable of fighting his own battles. He buried his face deeper into Alfred's chest, Ivan's words still replaying themselves in his mind.

"_You will be mine…"_

_

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_

And there's chapter 4 up :D  
Thanks for the reviews, they're my motivation to keep writing! (Well that and the fact that I've taken quite a liking to this little story)  
I might not be able to update every day during the week. Just 'cause, you know, I have a life. As in loads of school and hockey. Not much time for anything else :P

Let me know what you think, and If you have any ideas for future chapters, let me know!  
-Meg


	5. Slave

Sorry I haven't updated in a while, school & hockey have been crazy.  
Also: This chapter does contain **Explicit** content. That means **Rape**. And I don't want to traumatize anyone who accidentally stumbles across this fic looking for fluff. (Although there is fluff at the end) And please remember, this was based off of a prompt on the kink meme, so don't be too upset about the sex scene. Really, if a story's rated M and is categorized as romance, it really shouldn't come as a surprise.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Arthur knew Alfred was a bad mood when he stormed into the kitchen, the Saturday morning calm ruined by his angry stomping. The American angrily sliced himself a piece of bread, refusing to look anywhere but the counter as he hurriedly bit at the slice, looking more like an axe murderer than a businessman. A loud groan echoed through the kitchen as the businessman plodded over to the kitchen table, dragging a chair out from underneath before changing his mind and flopping tiredly onto the counter, glaring at the floor tiles. Arthur quirked an eyebrow, placing the kettle on the stove before hesitantly approaching the American.

"Are you alright Alfred?"

"Peachy."

Arthur sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with the stubborn American. He turned back to the kettle, plucking it from the stove as it began to whistle shrilly. He hesitantly looked to Alfred, silently asking permission to use some of his tea. Even after three weeks of living together, the Brit was unsure of using anything but the basic necessities. Alfred nodded distractedly, waving his arm tiredly in the direction of his spice rack before slamming his head down against the mahogany table, a pained groan escaping his lips as he did so. Arthur gave him another worried look before making them both tea –English breakfast, of course- and sitting down across from him. For a while, neither spoke. Arthur sipped at his tea, observing the American above the delicate porcelain rim. Occasionally he nudged Alfred's cup, indicating that he should drink. The businessman would take a small sip, not bothering to hide the grimace as the bitter liquid sloshed down his throat, and return to his melancholy silence.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence. "Er, Alfred?"

The American looked up, and Arthur noticed a red tinge around his eyes. Alfred averted his gaze once more, his mouth twisting into a soft frown. "What?"

"Are you alright? You seem quite distressed…"

"I'm fine." The businessman stared into the milky depths of his tea, resolutely willing himself to remain calm. "It's just- forget it."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, pressing forward. "No, tell me. Please?"

Alfred sighed, pulling himself up to face the Briton properly before speaking. "A few associates are coming over today to discuss a new proposition with one of my companies." He paused before continuing, his eyes flicking to the floor before settling back on Arthur's anxious face. "T-That's not all. Usually, if a partner has a slave, they, well, offer them up as… entertainment."

Arthur choked on his tea, emerald eyes widening in panic as Alfred continued; now refusing to meet the Brit's eyes.

"A-And I don't know how I'm going to get out of this. I can't just hide you; tons of people saw me at the auction. And it's bad taste if I don't share. You know how the attitude is here, slaves aren't treated as people. And I'm not saying it's right, but the deal is really important and I can't just throw it away. What would people think? If I were to cancel they'd think I was hiding something, and they'd shun me if I didn't let them near you, and I'm lost and I just don't know what to do and…I'm sorry Arthur."

Arthur swallowed heavily, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't safe. He would never be safe. Even Alfred, who had taken care of him for the last three weeks without making any move to touch him, was going to abandon him. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, hating the weakness in his voice as he drew in a shaky breath before suddenly standing, backing away from the table at the resigned look in Alfred's eyes. "No. Get away from me!"

Alfred stood, withdrawing a horribly familiar object from his suit pocket. His face was perfectly blank, save for his eyes, which were shining with a sad determination as he fingered the black leather. Arthur's stomach heaved as the black leather glinted dauntingly in the pale morning light. Arthur ran, sprinting toward the door and fumbling with the lock. The American easily caught up, spinning him around until his chest was pressed flat against the wall and his arms were pinned painfully behind his back with one hand. The American brushed sandy hair away from the nape of Arthur's neck, trailing his fingers along the pale skin. He loosened his grip enough so that the Brit's arms no loner ached, whispering soft reassurances in his ear. Arthur growled, twisting his head away. _Too fucking gentle, you bastard._ Black leather slid across fragile skin, tightening jut enough to provide some pressure against his throat. The click of a lock sealed his fate.

Alfred released the Briton's arms, and Arthur sank gratefully to the floor. The American quickly sat down beside him, carding his fingers through Arthur's sandy hair. For a while, neither of them spoke. Arthur fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, trying to ignore the worried stares of the American sitting next to him. Alfred continued to soothe the angry man, somehow praying that he would somehow understand.

"I'm sorry." Alfred started contritely at his feet. "I wish there was some other way."

Arthur started at the wall for a while longer. Finally, he spoke. "When are they coming?" His voice was raspy in his ears.

"This evening. I've already got dinner arranged, so you don't have to do any work."

"And this meeting means a lot to you?"

"Yes… I need to establish myself amongst these people, Arthur. Otherwise they'll walk all over me. It's really rare that someone like me gets a private sitting with people of their stature. This deal could make or break my company, and I can't just give up my dreams. If there was any other way…" His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, his bottom lip quivering slightly as he waited for Arthur's response.

"Fine. What are they going to do to me?"

Alfred jerked his head up, incredulous blue eyes widening as he saw the determined look on Arthur's face. He was surprised to hear the steely edge in the Briton's voice. He had been very docile since his branding, complying with Alfred's wishes and rarely criticizing his actions, speaking up only when necessary. Only over the last week had he become comfortable enough to hold lengthy conversations with the American. Still, even these were very stinted and limited to narrow subjects. Arthur would go mysteriously silent at any mention of his past, or his enslavement. Of course, this only made Alfred more curious, but he had done his best to comply with the Brit's unspoken wishes and refrained from asking anything too specific about wither of the topics.

He sighed, deciding that if nothing else, the Briton deserved an explanation. "Well, the meeting usually starts with a light snack before dinner. There's a bit of wine, maybe some cheese or an expensive appetizer, like shrimp. The slave usually carries it in and serves people, like a butler. The only catch is that they're usually naked." Seeing Arthur's face darken, he hastily added, "but don't worry, not all servers follow this procedure. Some are allowed to stay clothed until after the main course, so we don't have to worry about that. The only catch is that your collar must be visible."

Arthur nodded, relieved that his torture would be held off for a few more measly hours.

"But after dinner, when we're sealing the deal, well, that's where you come in. If the deal goes through, the slave is meant to help the members of the agreement 'celebrate'…"

Arthur translated. "So they fuck me."

Alfred winced. "Not always. Well, not really. Sometimes they just stick to… using…your mouth, but I can't promise that. It's considered bad taste if you deny one of your business partners the choice. And… they're not the only ones expected to use you. I'm a partner too." He looked to the floor, hating the stunned silence that followed his speech.

Arthur's mind reeled. Alfred was going to fuck him. Well, maybe not completely. He guessed the American would do no more than what was required, but the idea still hurt. And yet, he understood on some level. Alfred was the energetic upstart, the little guy that large corporations always tried to stomp on. He was wealthy, but he could easily make more if he went through with a few good deals. He couldn't be expected to give up on his dreams just because of a slave he had bought on a whim.

This reasoning didn't stop Alfred's decision from cutting at his heart. He had trusted the American, and he was betrayed. Alfred had said he would be safe. He had lied. And yet, he hadn't been touched in the last three weeks. He had been fed and cared for, and given clothes. He had been allowed out of the house to accompany Alfred on various errands, and he had been treated as more of a friend than a slave. Really, things were better at Alfred's than they would be anywhere else. If he was still at the auction house, he would probably get raped multiple times a day. Now he was almost free, and treated better than many of Boston's legal citizens. He was staying with a prestigious businessman, for goodness sake. He wasn't exactly hard done by. But it certainly felt that way.

"I'll do it. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

The words surprised him, jumping out of his mouth without much thought. Arthur's eyes widened, surprised at his own decision. However, when he looked to Alfred, his resolve only strengthened. The businessman was giving him one of his sad little smiles; unshed tears threatening to fall from the corners of his piercing blue eyes.

"Arthur…"

"It's alright. I don't really have a choice anyway, and you've been very kind to be these past few weeks. It's the least I can do to repay you."

Alfred smiled a bit wider, wrapping his arms around the Briton and pulling him flush against his chest. "Don't worry Arthur, I won't let any of them hurt you."

Arthur hugged him back, burying his face in the American's shoulder. "I know."

They lay on the floor together, watching small birds fly past the sunlit kitchen window, their carefree songs clashing beautifully with the morose atmosphere inside the delicate pane of glass.

After half an hour of this, Alfred spoke up. "Thank you."

Arthur mumbled a quiet 'no problem', choking out a sarcastic laugh before meeting Alfred's eyes.

"I'm not going to shove you in there without any prior experience. Come on, we'd better get up. I'll teach you the proper serving procedure and find you something nice to wear, and then we can work on your presentation."

Arthur stood, ignoring the cramped feeling spreading through his legs from lying on the floor for so long.

Alfred suddenly grabbed his face, forcing the Brit to look into his determined blue eyes. "Don't worry Arthur, you're not alone in this. I got you into this mess and I'll do everything I can to help you out of it. So don't be scared, ok? I'll protect you."

Arthur nodded. He could only hope that Alfred was right.

* * *

Arthur winced as the blonde man, Ludwig, snapped his fingers, signaling that he wanted more wine. He hurried over to where he sat, passing the other four members of the meeting without a glance. The German man was stretched out like a large jungle cat in an armchair, calmly leading the negotiations. He didn't bother to look at the Brit, snatching his glass when it was filled and continuing with his speech. Arthur growled slightly at his rude attitude, but quickly backed down after a startled look from one of the other partners. Catching Alfred's eye, Arthur gave a small smile. He was alright. He was fine. He could do this. Even if the man had already made several snide comments about his British heritage and hinted at what his intentions were for later that evening. The meeting was going well, and Arthur was happy to see that Alfred was holding his own, clearly stating his demands and refusing to back down to Ludwig's threats. Arthur refilled Ludwig's wineglass without making eye contact, slinking quietly back to the farthest corner of the room to wait until he was summoned again. Inwardly he was panicking, glancing anxiously at the clock while trying to ignore the increasingly common hungry stares directed his way. They still had to make it through dinner. He was still safe, for the time being.

They finally reached a compromise over dinner. The respective parties shook hands, congratulating each other on the progress they had made before returning to the living room in wait of their nightly entertainment. Alfred had pulled Arthur aside as soon as the deal was assured, leading him to the kitchen and going over the procedure for the night that he was to follow. He was to present himself to the gathered audience naked when they were settled in the living room. He was not allowed to fight back, regardless of what the men did to him. Arthur had rolled his eyes at the command. As if he had a chance against four of them anyway. Besides, he would be put to death if he attacked anyone. Slaves had no rights. He was quite literally, fucked. Alfred gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before returning to the living room, tonelessly laughing at the jokes of his partners.

Finally, Arthur walked in. The room immediately quieted, it's many occupants waiting until the Brit was on his knees in the center of the room. His eyes were trained firmly on the ground. Gradually, the small talk resumed. The men stood and sauntered over to Arthur, who remained unmoving on the floor. Only Alfred could see the faint shiver in his shoulders as Ludwig trailed his fingers to the cleft of his ass, murmuring snidely about what a slut he was.

Soon the others joined in. A timid looking Asian man moved in front of Arthur's face, prodding at his lips with his semi-erect member. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, licking lightly at this tip before taking more of it in, inwardly grimacing at the taste. Another set of hands began to fondle his testicles, rolling them appraisingly. Arthur shut his eyes, gasping quietly at the sensation. A slap to his face reminded him of his place. He opened his eyes again and resumed sucking on the Asian man's cock, determined to make him cum as quickly as possible. It would be better that way. The sooner they came, the sooner they would leave, and he could be alone again.

A cold, slippery hardness pressed against his ass, rubbing gently against his small pucker, and he couldn't stifle the whimper that escaped around the cock in his mouth. Not there, not again. Hands were running all over his body, fondling his cock, teasing his nipples, and he hated it. He hated how he leaned into their touches, how his body responded without his consent, how every time those hands did something wonderful, small pleading whimpers would escape, unbidden, from his throat. He didn't realize he was crying until a pair of soft hands trailed down his face, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He looked pleadingly to Alfred, wishing he would do something, _anything._ But Alfred seemed just as miserable as he was. His eyes held a desperate, lost look, and Arthur could feel the slight shiver of his hands against his face.

He let out a scream as Ludwig pushed into him. He could feel himself tearing at the sudden entry, and he clamped down hard on the thick shaft impaling him. Ludwig immediately began to move, not wasting any time. He forced himself in, reveling in the way Arthur screamed. He hadn't realized the Asian man's cock had fallen from his mouth until it was forced back in, deep into his throat. He choked and whined; his screams and gags only adding to the sensation the other man felt as he plundered his mouth. Soon, both men were coming, filling Arthur's ass and mouth respectively before tucking themselves back into their pants.

The cock in his ass was almost immediately replaced by another one, thrusting quickly into the tight heat much like Ludwig had. Arthur stole a quick glance behind him and saw that it was the tall albino who complained loudly all through dinner who was forcing himself into his unwilling body.

Everything from that pint onward was a haze of tears and pain. Arthur retreated to the recesses of his mind, trying his best to block out the pain of another cock scraping down his throat. He didn't even bother look at the owner this time. The albino was still thrusting into his ass and showed no signs of stopping. The scathing words in his ears faded to a dull buzz as he sought to remove himself from reality. He was brought back to the present when they finally finished, coming into his weakened body before pulling out. Arthur lay on the floor, exhausted. A sharp kick to the ribs reminded him that there was still one person who had not come yet. Alfred.

The American pumped his cock a few times before positioning it near Arthur's head. Alfred looked absolutely miserable, his face waxy and pale as he forced himself to go through with the deed. Arthur seemed to sense his distress. For an unknown reason, he didn't like to see the American unhappy, so he pulled himself to his knees once more and began to lick tenderly at the head, going through same motions as he had with so many others. He liked to think that he was a little more tender than he had been with the others, but he knew that it probably wasn't the case. It would take more than a few weeks of kindness to get him to trust the American implicitly. Alfred sighed and moaned, thrusting gently into his mouth but refusing to force himself on the prostrate man below him. Arthur almost smiled, grateful to the American for his kind actions. His throat already ached, as did his rear, and he could feel an unpleasant dripping down his thighs. He didn't know whether it was semen of blood.

Suddenly he gasped, twisting away as multiple hands began running down his body. The other men were touching him now, forcing him to take pleasure in what he was doing. And although he tried his best to resist, he could soon feel himself reacting to their touches. He was surprised at first, when the harsh slaps and bites he was accustomed to never happened. Then someone grabbed hold of his cock and began to pull in sure, steady tugs, and he became too lost in the sensation to care. He was vaguely aware of Alfred's cock in his mouth, and on impulse he began to speed up, swirling his tongue around the slit and bringing his hands up to knead at the American's balls. He was expecting the sudden shudder that passed through Alfred's body, and the warm fluid that filled his mouth. He dutifully swallowed before collapsing to the floor once more, the steady hands following his every movement. Someone rolled him onto his back and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see what they were doing to him. He felt familiar fingers threading through his hair as the other men resumed their ministrations with a newfound enthusiasm. He felt a single finger press against his entrance before slipping inside, twisting and pumping amidst the mixture of cum until it brushed against that special spot that made Arthur see stars. He bucked, a small keening noise escaping his lips as the finger continued to knead and massage that area. He felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge, finally toppling over with a small scream. As he came down from his high, he noticed that the hands had left his body. As the sound of footsteps gradually faded, Arthur began to relax, content to lie on the floor and recover for as long as they would let him.

Alfred turned to lead his guests to the door, returning to the living room a few minutes later when they had all left in their respective carriages. He lifted Arthur's limp form from the ground, carrying him to the bathroom where he stripped them both before running a hot bath. Arthur murmured tiredly in his embrace, sighing contentedly as the warm water soothed his aching muscles. Alfred let him rest against his chest as he rubbed comforting circles in his back.

They lay together for a long time, both lost in their own thoughts. The room was still, save for Alfred's gentle movements as he added more hot water to the tub when it began to cool.

Arthur didn't blame the American. Not really, anyway. And it hadn't been as bad is he thought it would be. He had thought that he would be horrified, scared and weak as his tormentors forced themselves on him again. However, this wasn't the case. Though he hadn't been exactly willing, and the men hadn't done anything to prepare him, these details were nothing new. What was new however, was the way they had acted while using him. Everything was crisp and precise. They would take pleasure and leave, offering neither praise nor criticism. They hadn't shown any interest in pleasing him throughout the affair, save for the final bits at then end. Arthur suspected that they had pleasured him more to ease Alfred's guilt than his own suffering. Funnily, it had worked out the opposite. The pleasure made it easier to forget, masking his agony. And although Alfred hadn't hurt him, he must still have felt intense guilt at what had happened. That would explain the absolute misery carved into his face as he first undid his pants. He supposed that must have been what made the difference, what made this incident different from the countless others that he had endured. Alfred hadn't wanted to take advantage of him. The American had looked so sorry for what he had done, and it melted something inside of Arthur's chest. Coming back to the present, Arthur snuggled closer, enjoying Alfred's tender massage as the warm water sloshed gently around them.

He turned to smile wanly at Alfred, his face falling as he noticed the crestfallen look on the businessman's face. "Oi, come off it," he murmured gently, wrapping his own arms around the businessman's neck. "It's not your fault."

Alfred met his gaze sadly. "It is. I could have stopped them. I could have done something. I don't know what, but there must have been a better way."

"It was for the best," Arthur replied, hating the misery that settled in the American's eyes.

"I could have stopped them."

"You would have lost their support."

"I would have managed without them anyway."

"You were following you dreams."

"And because of that, you got hurt."

"I'll be fine in a few days. It's nothing I'm not used to."

"I couldn't save you."

And then Alfred had buried his head in Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stroked his hair, not understanding the American's refusal to give up on him. He whispered reassurances in the businessman's ear, that everything was going to be alright; that he was fine, and that he really shouldn't worry so much because he would gladly do it again if it meant that Alfred would be happy.

He started, suddenly panicking as he realized his words. He would do it again. He would put himself through hell for a stranger who had bought him at an auction only three weeks previously. And he meant it. What was it about Alfred that made him want to believe his crazy ramblings? He didn't get a chance to ponder the thought any longer, as Alfred chose that moment to stop his sobbing in favour of clutching Arthur's hand tightly.

Alfred pulled his head away from Arthur's shoulder, looking disbelievingly into Arthur's face. "You can't mean that. I, I-"

"I do, Alfred."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I wish I could tell you, but for some reason I can't bear the thought of you upset because of me… because of anyone, actually. I want to protect you like you protect me."

He blushed at the words, ducking his head and staring absently at Alfred's toes.

"Arthur…" Alfred sounded so contrite, so anxious, and yet so happy and loving that he couldn't help but turn around, his own smile forming at the sight of the American's face. He was smiling gently now, his eyes tender and full of something Arthur couldn't place. He felt a pleasant warmth spread through his chest as he leaned forward, pressing himself into Alfred's welcoming arms.

And then Alfred kissed him.

* * *

Well that's possibly the most stereotypical chapter ending imaginable. Don't shoot me, I'm tired! Anyway, tell me what you think (Ie, review or message, because me saying 'I appreciate feedback' is code for REVIEW! *panting uncontrollably*)

So have an awesome March break! I'll probably have more time to write now, so you won't have to wait a month for an update! (Insert sarcastic applause here)

-Meg


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